


It's Warlock, but it's NPC POV

by bookmarksorganization



Category: Slow Show - mia ugly
Genre: I don't have an explanation and refuse to provide one, I used to be an adventurer like you, Julia fucks, Julia is a wlw icon, it's that wine cursed necklace story they referenced in season 3, these shenanigans don't have an upload schedule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22744687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookmarksorganization/pseuds/bookmarksorganization
Relationships: Erasmus/William (Warlock - Slow Show), Julia Chattox/Self
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Slow Show Metaverse





	It's Warlock, but it's NPC POV

Selfina Neueville Certe didn’t know what to do with herself. She was thirty, unmarried without prospects in a hamlet that had never seen conflict, or anything interesting at all. She’d heard the news, of course. The traveler or two they’d get in a year had made mention of The Inquisition’s formation and activities, but, that seemed a world away. And it was, really. The closest city was over a fortnight of travel on horseback from Rowley. They were edged up against the mountains, as far from anything as a place could get.

Which isn’t to say Selfina found herself unoccupied. She had friends: three of them. And when her grandmother, the woman who had raised her, had fallen ill a few years back, Selfina—or Self, as everyone called her—had taken over the demanding work of running the shop. 

Her grandmother had been an herbalist, and Self guessed she was too, by inheritance. Her time was split between foraging, tending her garden, and working in the store. When she crawled into her straw bed every night, she slept like the dead. The days were full, and nearly identical.

But, she wanted more. 

Women in her family lived long lives. While her parents (including her mother) had died in that tragic baking accident, without the hazards of mistimed fermentation, Selfina had many years ahead of her. Her grandmother had lived well into her nineties.

Selfina imagined what her grandmother would say to her now, if she was still alive, in that stern tone she’d take when she thought Selfina was being ridiculous, which had happened a lot. _”Self N. Certe,”_ she would have said. _“I didn’t raise you to be a fool.”_

But, maybe Selfina wanted to be foolish.

The day had started like any Tuesday. She had awoken with the sun, dressed, and trekked out to the foothills with her gathering bag. Lesser periwinkle was in season, and she was hoping to collect as much as possible, alongside the borage and musk mallow that were her usual.

The hills were softly limned with fog, and dew glimmered on the grass. It was beautiful. It always was.

She spotted some periwinkle, and bent down to harvest it with the small herbalist’s knife she favored. But then, there was a noise. She froze, and listened. It didn’t sound like a bird, or any of the usual sounds the hills would make.

No, it was the sound of voices—growing closer.

She straightened. No reason to be too worried. This was Rowley, after all. But, she held the knife close against the folds of her skirt, to conceal it, nonetheless.

“—you’re being ridiculous,” a man’s voice said.

They came into view. There were three, no, four—the tallest one, the man that was talking, was carrying a child on his hip. “It’s just like any other town, priest,” he was saying.

Priest? None of them looked like any priest she’d ever seen. The tall man had long copper hair, plaited back from his face, flowing loose down his back. His clothes were strange; all of their clothes were. 

The woman in the group wore a strange wide-brimmed hat, formed from leather, and… pants, also leather. On her upper half she wore a bodice and chemise that had been cut short. 

Selfina noticed that while the woman had a slender form, there was strength to it. 

The tallest man was dressed similarly to her, though his clothing seemed to have a great deal more laces, and there was no chemise in sight. His boots went awfully far up his legs.

The final man, standing a bit shorter, was dressed in a dark robe worn thin and tattered. While he had no collar, Selfina realized if she squinted she could see the shape of a cassock, there. That had to be the priest. He had a shock of pale, almost white, hair. He seemed stressed.

“You don’t have to be so cynical, Erasmus,” he said.

“Me, cynical? That’s a bit rich, coming from you.” the other one retorted.

“I’m not cynical.”

“You are absolutely cynical. You just think it’s a part of your whole melancholic disposition.”

The woman noticed Selfina standing there, first. She stopped short and held a hand up. “Boys, stop it.” Her accent was strange… flatter and further back in her mouth. Selfina couldn’t place it.

They all came to a pause in front of her. The child stared.

“Greetings?” Selfina attempted.

“Hello,” the woman said. “We’re traveling through the area and looking for lodging. Is there a town nearby?” 

Now that Selfina had gotten a closer look at her, she realized the woman was younger than the other two men—closer to her own age. She was also one of the most beautiful women Selfina had ever seen, with dark eyes and fine features.

“Or… could you direct us to the nearest town?” the woman added.

Selfina realized she hadn’t been speaking. “Oh—oh, um, yes? Yes. We’re near Rowley. It’s about an hour east of here. I have a shop there.” She gestured to her bag, by way of explanation. “I’m an herbalist.”

“An herbalist? Well, we’ll have to visit your shop later to restock, in that case. I’m Julia. That’s Erasmus, the little one is Joshua. And that’s William.”

Selfina lifted her hand in greeting and then realized she was waving the knife around. Shit. Well, she was clearly out foraging. None of them seemed concerned. This was fine. 

“Selfina,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “You can call me Self. Everyone else does.”

Julia inclined her head. “Which do you prefer?”

No one had ever asked her that before.

“Oh, uh… either is fine. I guess I like Selfina, but it’s kind of a lot to say.”

“Mm. Two whole extra syllables.” Julia smiled. “I’ll see you around, Selfina.”

She watched them go. The two men started arguing again after moments, though they were too far off for her to make out what they were saying. 

That had been strange.

When she’d filled her bag enough to justify calling it for the day, she hurried back down the hill, eager to return. She decided on the way that she would delay opening the shop for a bit, and instead try to go find Larry and Ron at the mill. It wasn’t every day Rowley got visitors, after all. 

Rowley’s main export was lumber, and the town’s most capable men earned their living down at the mill.. Selfina swung by her home to drop off the herbs, and while there, she scooped some cookies she’d baked into a basket to bring along.

Larry looked up when she approached and punched Ron (who was bent over a log) in the shoulder to get his attention. 

“Fuck off, L—oh, Self, it’s you,” he brushed at his tunic, nervously.

Ron had carried a torch for her for years. He’d even tried to court her, a decade ago. She’d turned him down and it had taken a good season for him to stop being too embarrassed to talk to her. Selfina mostly tried to ignore his apparent lingering interest.

She’d never met a man she could picture wanting to know in that way. There was just such a limited amount of options, in Rowley. How could she be interested in any man with so few to choose between? There definitely wasn’t any other explanation for her having remained unmarried for so long.

She thought of Julia, with her soft-yet-strong frame and dark eyes—eyes you could fall into, like pools of water in the forest. Nice potable water, not the kind you drank because you were lost and thirsty and then got sick for a week from. Um. Selfina had heard of dancers in the city theaters, and she imagined they must be built like Julia. 

She could probably have the pick of any man she wanted—was Selfina’s point. They wouldn’t even care that she dressed like a man; she was so lovely. Perhaps one of the men with her had been her husband, but for some reason, Selfina didn’t think that was true.

“Did you bring us cakes?” asked Larry, taking the basket from her. It startled Selfina out of her reverie.

“N–uh, cookies,” she said.

Larry lifted the wicker top open and passed a cookie to Ron, who took it. 

“Thanks, Self,” Ron said.

“There are visitors in town,” she said.

“Get out. Already?” Larry said. “It’s only been a couple of months since last time.”

“Yeah—three of them and a boy. Strange bunch. Weird clothes.”

“Maybe they’re performers,” Ron said. “I’ve heard of that. Like—traveling bards or whatever.”

Selfina considered that. “Maybe? They didn’t have any instruments.”

“We’ll have to get them to go drinking with us,” Larry said. “If they’re still around tonight. They must have stories to share.”

“The woman in the group said she might come to my store later, I could invite her then.”

“That’s a good idea,” Larry said. “Oh! You should tell Jane.”

“Do you think she’d be able to get away, with the baby? I don’t want her to feel like she’s missing out.” Selfina said, worried. Jane had been so stressed, lately.

“Fair point, but Ron and I will meet you in the tavern later either way, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you guys there.”

She left the basket with them—Ron would make sure to return it—and walked back to her shop to set up for the day.


End file.
